


Little Kisses - a Damijon Fluff Story

by gmartinez12



Category: Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: M/M, lots of kisses, proably my best, super fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 12:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15774294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmartinez12/pseuds/gmartinez12
Summary: Whenever Jon felt sad, Damian always wanted to find a way to make him feel better. Damian had the bright idea of adopting whatever way Jon's mom Lois employed to cheer up her son. This is how Jon ended up kissing Damian on the cheek.





	Little Kisses - a Damijon Fluff Story

**Author's Note:**

> Oh and if you got a moment, and maybe some spare change, please consider showing your support by donating a coffee for $3 at my page:
> 
> **ko-fi.com/gmartineztheficwriter.**
> 
> If you really enjoy my fics (and I really hope you do) and kudos and comments aren't enough to express how hyped you are, ko-fi donations are a great way to show your love, too XD. It helps me pay my credit card bills and really motivates me to keep on providing content. And if I get any extra? I might even commission damijon art we can all enjoy. I'll keep writing stories for free don't worry, I love the super sons so much that all I want is to share the fandom with you guys. But yeah, if you like, ko-fi donations are super cool too :3
> 
> Also, if you wanna chat and say hi, my discord is gmartinez12#9930 :D

 

 

 

 

Damian didn’t notice it at first.

He was so used to being partners with someone who wasn’t fazed by blood or a grisly crime scene. After all, the Bat family members were trained to be efficient detectives. During a case, Batman kept his emotions compartmentalized as if it was just another gadget he could stow away in his infinitely spacious utility belt. He taught all his heirs the same, so Damian, Jason, Tim, Barbara, Cass, and Steph, even Duke Thomas learned that same brand of stoicism. Even Dick Grayson, who was the closest as anyone in the family was to being an actually happy person, could stand to hold off his comedic quips until after the investigation.

Damian was so used to having a partner who could stop feeling when they had to, and that was why he never noticed Jon. He was so used to Jon being the sunshine boy, always smiling, and cheerful, and optimistic to a fault. Jon was the grin to Damian’s frown, the sun to his shadow. It was what had endeared him to Jon, not that he’d ever admitted it. And it was also why he never noticed the tiny little ways that Jon was definitely not okay.

That night, they’d just rescued a child who was nearly killed along with her mother by an apparently psychopathic jilted lover. The girl was six, and was in shock. Damian had escorted emergency services to drop the mother off at the local hospital where she ultimately passed away. Jon stayed to assist social services and police. When Damian returned, the girl was gone, but Jon was still standing in the dingy apartment, staring at the blood spatter that had dried on the wooden floorboards.

It was only just then, at that moment, that Damian noticed the inherent wrongness that Jon radiated.

Jon was almost cross-eyed, staring at the chalk outline CSI had drawn. It was shaped like a doughy body with limp arms and legs splayed in ways that living limbs would never dare attempt. To Damian, it was just another artifact of the scene. But to Jon, it looked as if it was a mesmerizing void. His stare was blank and at the same time frustrated, searching for something non-existent. Damian snapped his fingers twice—no answer. He put a hand on Jon’s face and the latter finally turned to look at him. Damian found himself staring at the haunted face of his best friend, an expression of incomprehension at the face of loss so glaringly out of place on his usually bright face.

“Jon?” Damian asked carefully. He bit back whatever jibe he’d had in store for Jon because the boy’s face unnerved him.

Jon blinked, and his face contorted in an effort to wipe away the expression he’d had.

“What happened on your end?”

“There was nothing more we could do,” Damian replied, looking away. “But we saved the girl, and that’s something to be proud of.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” As Jon said it, a shadow crossed his face, and he didn’t sound like he actually believed what he was saying.

“We’re done here for now. We can visit the girl later. Check up on her every few days. It should help,” Damian offered. What he’d really wanted to say was, ‘It should help  _you_ ,' but he kept that last part to himself.

“Yeah,” Jon agreed. “We’ll do that.” He gave Damian a faint smile. It almost fooled Damian into thinking Jon was all right.

After he and Jon parted ways that night, Damian spent a long time alone on top of a random rooftop in Metropolis. He sat against the steel struts of a water tank, and the full moon was just at the right angle to place a shadow beside him. In the distorted light, his silhouette looked infinitely miserable—the shade of a broken boy. His hair gel had lost enough of its hold to distort the shape of his hair on the shadow as well—it made the shape look like Jon, and Damian could almost see his friend’s blank stricken eyes staring back at him from the blackness. They’d have been deep blue, but not the peaceful ponds they once were, rather, they were the blue of bottomless oceans that would drown you.

They’d handled hard cases before. Scenes of heinous crimes. Accidents. He and Jon had acted as first responders more than once. They weren’t able to save everyone they’d tried to help. And it wasn’t just those who’d lost their lives, it was also those who’d lost life’s meaning. Through it all, Damian thought Jon was able to keep up with his detachment. All of them were just cases to Damian. Just people to help and save—objectives. It was only now, after having seen Jon’s face, that Damian realized Jon was absorbing something entirely different. To Jon, they were people whose lives were broken and he sympathized with them, shared in their sorrow, and he’d been taking all of that hurt in—all of that loss. How many cases had they taken on like that? How many times had Jon kept it all inside?

Damian saw Jon properly for the first time that night. He’d seen how still Jon had stood, stiff as if straining to keep his heartache in, fearing that the tiniest movement would spill the horror on his face. Damian heard all the words Jon never said, how he barely breathed, every breath was guilt pumping into his lungs. His cheeks had been glistening with the trail of invisible tears that he didn’t let drop, the dread freezing his eyes in perpetual disbelief.  Jon tried to hide it all, but utterly failed because the absence of his warmth, of his vibrant presence, was the antithesis to what made Jon…himself.

 _All this time. Whenever a hard case like that came up, he was like that. I thought he was trying to be serious like how I taught him—like I wanted him to be. I was so_ proud _. That’s why I couldn’t see, all this time._

Damian couldn’t see the scared and grieving child Jon tried to hide behind his cape.

But now that he did, he was determined to do something about it.

* * *

**

“I thought we didn’t have patrol today?” Jon said as he landed softly on the grass.

Damian had invited him over the next day, but he had no plans to go on a patrol. For one thing, Damian had called Jon to Wayne Manor—specifically, to its spacious manicured gardens. It was also the middle of the afternoon, half a dozen hours before their usual time to prowl the streets.

“I didn’t invite you for that,” Damian replied as he bid Jon to sit beside him. Jon walked over and plopped down on the ground, and both boys found themselves leaning against the trunk of an old oak tree.

“What do you have in mind then? Video games?” Jon ventured.

“No,” Damian replied. He sounded distracted, as if he was trying to think of a particularly long sentence that he’d wanted to say.

He was staring up at the clouds, his hands idly caressing blades of grass. His eyes were thoughtful if a bit melancholy, and you could tell only because he’d left off his Robin mask. He was dressed in his hero uniform, but without his mask and his usually aloof demeanor, he was less like the vigilante that he was and more of a child wearing clothes much too heavy and bright for him to bear.

“Well whatever we’re doing, why not in our headquarters? Or, you know, inside your house?” Jon jerked a thumb in the direction of the manor. "At least we have chairs over there…”

“I thought this was better,” Damian said languidly. “Weather’s clear—there’s a slight breeze. We can breathe….it’s perfect for talking.”

Jon gave him a funny look. “You sound like you’re suddenly going to ask me to talk about our feelings.”

“I want to talk about our feelings,” Damian said without skipping a beat.

To say that Jon was surprised would be an understatement. His jaw was open halfway as if he couldn’t decide if he was going to laugh or gawk at Damian. He rose on his haunches and eyed his friend with mock suspicion.

“Who are you and what did you do with my best friend?” Jon demanded playfully.

“Your outfit still looks ridiculous and ripped jeans are shameful and unbecoming for a proper hero,” Damian stated plainly.

Jon giggled briefly then settled back to leaning on the tree. “Yep, still Damian. So, feelings…”

“I want to talk about yesterday.”

“Oh…” Jon said softly. His cheer evaporated, and his face fell. His eyes focused on the patch of grass between his splayed legs.

“Jon,” Damian began, carefully choosing his words, “I know you’ve been hiding it all this time—what you feel when we have cases like that. You’re holding back all the pain.”

Jon looked away, and for a moment Damian thought he would leave and fly away. He instinctively grabbed Jon’s arm.

“I thought you’d be annoyed at me for being emotional,” Jon murmured, ashamed that he’d needed to say it.  

“No, I—” Damian began but Jon continued like he didn’t hear him.

“I know we’re heroes, and people look up to us. If we start crying, then how can they be brave and stand back up again?” Jon’s words sounded hollow. He’d recited them because he knew they were true, but not because he believed them. Or rather, he believed, but he knew he couldn’t follow them himself.

“It’s human to feel,” Damian countered. “Being a hero doesn’t take that away from you.”

“She asked me when her mom was coming back, and I couldn’t say anything at all,” Jon said throatily. “How could I even answer that?”

Damian felt the utter helplessness in Jon’s voice. There was still hesitation, a dam that Jon didn’t want to break. He was still holding it in. Damian didn’t have an answer either, not for the girl, at least. But at least for Jon, he knew something that would help.

“It’s just us, now. You can say what you need to. If you need to cry…that’s okay, too.”

He stared at his knees, hoping that avoiding eye contact would afford Jon some privacy. Damian always felt like crying was an intimately private thing, a state where you were most vulnerable than at any other time of your life. Whenever someone cried he’d had the urge to look away. Only then, it was because he’d wanted to distance himself from that vulnerability. Now, with Jon, he wanted to be part of it, but was afraid he was intruding upon something that was much too personal. Being naked or sleeping would have been less vulnerable and personal than it was to cry.

At first, there was silence. Then Damian heard Jon’s breathing hitch. Jon sniffed, wet and audible. He’d thought Jon would cry like a child, loud and bawling, furiously determined to let the world know and share in their sadness. Instead…Jon wept silently, the tears streaking down his smooth cheeks and his breathing and sniffing the only obvious signs of his sorrow.

It was a dignified kind of crying. Solemn, and deeply regretful. It was not a child’s wail of displeasure, rather, it was a prayer, a wish that this quiet grief was consolation enough for the ones Jon didn’t get to save. His soundless tears were offerings to those that passed, to those whose lives had been rent, a desperate plea to make amends for all the horrors Jon could not stop from happening.

And Damian heard it all, the plea, the prayer, the vow, as Jon sobbed beside him. He felt like he should do something other than sit, and definitely something other than gawk. He had so little experience dealing with such an intimate moment that he knew anything he said would betray him. There were no words. Instead, he wrapped his arm around Jon.

The gesture felt so natural, so  _right_ , that Damian wasn’t at all surprised when Jon leaned over and rested his head on Damian’s shoulder. Damian felt the warm mass of his friend’s head pushing down on him, the tears dripping hot and wet. He chalked it up to reflex when he’d grabbed the hem of his cape and wiped Jon’s eyes with it. It was a simple thing, to dry someone’s tears, and yet the sentiment echoed in the somber silence, one that wrapped both boys in an invisible veil of warmth.

“What’s on your mind?” Damian asked after a while.

Jon sniffed deeply and wiped his nose with Damian’s cape. “It’s…all so wrong. I feel this kind of sadness that I can’t even understand. It’s sad, they’re sad, I’m sad. That girl just lost her mom…what if I lost  _my_  mom? What about the other moms out there that we don’t see? Just thinking about it makes me choke up.”

“You know we can only save so many,” Damian replied gently.

“I know,” Jon said, somewhat forcefully. His tone was combative, but he only seemed to be quarreling with himself. “It’s stupid for me to feel this way.”

“It’s not stupid,” Damian chided him. “You have the right to your sadness. I’m not here to judge you. I’m not here to tell you to get over it. I’m here to tell you it’s okay to feel what you feel.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, too?” Jon asked after another big sniff.

“I’ve been trained not to,” Damian replied simply. “You’re more in tune with your emotions. That’s why you’re the people person between the two of us.”

That Damian would even admit to any shortcoming was quite a huge deal. Jon just realized Damian was actually complimenting him. He responded by further burying his face in Damian’s shoulder.  

Jon’s tears continued to fall, and in those few seconds of silence, Damian felt the urge to do something more. He couldn’t back out of the intimacy he and Jon shared now. He could only embrace it. This feeling of altruism was so unfamiliar to him that it swept him up in its tide. He wanted to help Jon. He  _needed_  to.

“What does your mom do to make you feel better?” Damian asked after a while.

Jon looked up at him with moist eyes. “Well, my mom lets me kiss her cheek. It always made me feel better.”

“How does kissing your mom make  _you_  feel better?” Damian asked in genuine confusion. He always thought a child kissing a parent was a form of bribery on the child’s part, that children always actually hated having to kiss adults but only did so to curry favor—they feigned subservience to get presents.

“Kissing is…warm,” Jon explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If I kiss her, I can feel her there, I know she’s there. It’s like I know someone else knows what I’m feeling, and that…cheers me up, I guess.”

“Would you…” Damian began, taking great care to parse his words correctly, and at the same time get over the absurdity of his suggestion, “Would you like to kiss my cheek? I’m not your mother, obviously. But I mean, if it will help you feel better…”

Jon gave Damian an unfathomable expression. His tears had ceased and his brows were neither furrowed nor arched, but in an odd middle ground that seemed to convey every emotion at once. Damian was internally preparing to stiffen, a defensive reaction to what was almost certain rejection. Jon was going to call him out for giving such a weird proposition. It was weird, wasn’t it? Offering a kiss as a remedy for sadness? But then at the same time, Damian argued with himself that it wasn’t weird at all—this was just a way for him to make Jon feel better.

If Damian thought about it, the really weird thing was that he’d even go to such lengths just for Jon. It was so unlike him. Being friends with Jon was peculiar in that he constantly found himself doing things he’d never normally do without question. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense because it was for Jon. And because it was for Jon, it felt right. Was that such a weird thing to believe?

Apparently, Jon shared none of these doubts because he leaned in and pressed his lips against Damian’s firm cheek.

It was a child’s kiss—Jon’s lips were puckered and still as they flattened against Damian’s skin. He lingered for just a second and a half, with conscious effort to apply suction, so that his lips parted from Damian with a subtle yet audible pop. The contradicting heat of the contact and the coolness of Jon’s wet lips was all Damian could think about and he didn’t notice his hand coming up to touch the spot where Jon had kissed him until his fingers were already there.

“Do you…feel any better?” Damian asked softly, fingers still on his cheek.

Jon looked up at him. His eyes were still red and moist, but he wore a small but infinitely grateful smile. Damian could already see the tiniest bit of sunshine return to the boy’s face.

“A lot better, thanks, D.”

“No problem, J.”

Jon settled his head back down Damian’s shoulder. He lay there until his breathing relaxed and slowed to a drowsy hum. Damian himself felt exhausted by the whole emotional ordeal and couldn’t help but recline even further so that Jon’s head supported his own. They lay there in the garden, lightly dozing off against that oak tree and leaning on each other for an hour or two. The furtive photographs that Bruce Wayne took of the peacefully sleeping boys when he’d discovered them later became some of Bat family’s most treasured possessions.

* * *

**

Neither Damian nor Jon explicitly worded any agreement. It was just one of the many peculiarities of friendships among boys like them that new statutes would be entered in the abstract constitution of their relationship without prior discussion, and both would adhere to this new decree as if it had been there all this time. So from that day on, and in the months that followed, whenever Jon had been stricken with a troubling roil of sadness, Damian would offer his cheek for another little kiss. Jon happily accepted, of course. But in time, it wasn’t just Jon’s spirits that were lifted with every peck—Damian would also get a brief jolt of euphoria that he never found the words for.

The kisses became more frequent as the days wore on. Jon kissed Damian in good times and bad, his happiness now valid criteria to press his soft lips against Damian’s smooth cheeks. When Jon kissed him, Damian had taken to holding Jon’s hand afterward. Jon had adapted immediately, clutching Damian’s hand and lacing his fingers between Damian’s, as if the added heat of their joined hands amplified an invisible pulse of power that served to steady them both.

In truth, there was no reason for the gesture at all. But the boys’ friendship was hardly concerned with rhyme or reason at all anymore—if they both liked it, then it was added to the many little nuances of their bond. They both had their own secret language of gestures and movements, of glances and touches, and hands and kisses that weaved the tight unseen knots of their brotherhood.

The young boy’s excitement soon became another reason for an uplifting peck—Jon once successfully performed a complicated maneuver with Damian, and in his exhilaration, he’d given his friend a kiss. By this time, it was all so natural to Damian that he’d expected it—even wanted it. And the barest inklings of something urgent began prodding his mind.  _What if he wanted to kiss Jon back?_

Damian lost that chance when Jon had inexplicably disappeared one day. The only response Jon’s dad offered was vague and unhelpful at best—Jon was in space to find himself. Back on Earth, Damian felt like he’d lost part of himself. He unconsciously touched his cheek, feeling for that spot where he’d always feel the warmly cool peck of a boy’s kiss. His fingers only touched bare skin that day. There was nothing to touch for months on end.

* * *

**

The next time Jon stepped foot on Earth, freshly returned from his cosmic journey of self-discovery, he’d expected a triumphant return. At the very least, he’d expected Damian to be there to greet him. He’d sorely missed his best friend for all of that time, and couldn’t wait to regale Damian with all the fantastic adventures he’d been through.  

Instead, Jon found a distressing lack of Damian in his welcoming committee. He felt numb as parents peppered him with hugs and kisses. Why wouldn’t Damian be there for him? Jon felt upset and extremely dismayed. He felt a strong urge to kiss Damian’s cheek, as he always did when he’d felt sadness like this. But of course, Damian wasn’t there, and his lips were tingling with unfulfilled anticipation.

To say that Dick Grayson dragged Jon by the collar was an understatement. When Jon visited Wayne Manor a few days later, Dick had appraised Jon in a manner that reminded him of this one fairytale with the farmer who owned a goose that laid golden eggs. In this case, Dick was the farmer and Jon was the goose that was about to solve everyone’s problems.

“Finally, you’re back!” Dick exclaimed. He hugged Jon briefly in a tight suffocating embrace only eldest siblings could ever inflict on younger people. “Help us Jonathan Kentobi, you’re our only hope!”

Jon guffawed heartily. Very few could claim to be better than Dick Grayson at making cringe-worthy puns that transcended older brother territory into full-on geeky uncle. Jon had to wipe away tears of laughter from his eyes as Dick put a hand on his back and guided him inside. He’d always loved the Wayne Manor. He’d come by often to have sleepovers with Damian, and more than any other place in the world, the huge mansion had so much character. It was not the decadent ornaments or imported furniture, however—it was the people who lived in it. All of the evidence that Bruce Wayne and his adopted children had ever walked these halls.

“I missed this place,” Jon remarked absentmindedly. He studied a few framed pages of a notebook with sketches of people on it. It was Damian’s earliest works, sketched in boredom on random stationary supplies when during the first few weeks he’d arrived at Gotham years ago.

Dick followed Jon’s gaze. “He misses you too, you know,” Dick said softly.

“I thought he might be mad at me…or something,” Jon said as he shuffled his feet.

“Well…” Dick began, his hand stroking the back of his head, “…you’re not wrong, but when has he ever been happy with something? That’s how we all like our Damian, broody and stirred on the rocks.”

 _“I like my Damian with smiles and kisses, thanks,”_  Jon almost said. Instead, he just nodded. He didn’t particularly think his kissing arrangement with Damian was something to hide, but there was a feeling in his gut that wanted it to be a secret, or at least…wanted to believe it was a secret that only he and Damian shared.  

“Though, actually,” Dick continued, “He’s been at Bruce levels of brooding for a while now, and that’s how I figured he misses you. You have an effect on him. I think you’ll be able to help.”

“What…what effect?” Jon asked timidly. His cheeks grew hot under Dick’s knowing look.

“An effect that I want you to keep on… _effecting_ …on him. That’s a word, right?” Dick said thoughtfully as he lightly shoved Jon out of a large glass door. “Go on then. There’s a lonely boy there who needs his best friend.”

Jon found himself back at the garden courtyard where he had first kissed Damian’s cheek, where kissing became part and parcel of their intricate relationship. He heard the crisp  _swish_  of something cutting through the otherwise tranquil air. There was a slice, and then another, and then the sound of something disturbing what sounded like a bushel of leaves. Jon walked on in, noticing how the topiary shaped like various animals had gashes and chopped off sections that made it seem that they’d been hunted down by someone wielding a vegan steak knife.

Damian was at the far end of the garden practicing his swordplay. He paused briefly when his eyes met Jon, and for a moment, his mask of concentration slipped. The moment passed, however, and he continued to attack the air in front of him as if he’d not just seen Jon standing there after being gone for months.

Jon was hoping for something dramatic—perhaps Damian would have thrown his sword to the floor and run up to him and…well  _something_. He was hoping for a Damian that was overcome with excitement for his return. Then again, Damian doing absolutely none of that and pretending he didn’t exist was well within his more realistic expectations. He pouted and came closer to Damian.

“So, uh, I wanted you to know I’m back,” Jon began. “I mean, yeah, no duh, you can see me. Er…I mean, I brought cake. It’s not space cake, just regular cake, it’s in the kitchen with Alfred. Wanna have some?”

Damian sparred with the air a few more times before he deigned to respond.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Damian said icily. His voice was a venomous dagger, and the way it sounded like he was accusing Jon of a hundred unsaid wrongs stung the younger boy deeply. Damian might as well have added that he didn’t care if Jon came back or not.

Jon bit his lip as he stepped closer. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he said as sincerely as he could.

He walked closer still, prompting Damian to shout, “Get away from my training space! You’ll cut yourself.” He slashed the air in Jon’s direction threateningly.

Jon wasn’t the least bit perturbed. His time in space had helped him grow in so many ways. And since much of the time, he was thinking of Damian, he’d grown in how he considered the temperaments of his older yet still shorter friend. That, and how he felt for Damian, and how Damian must feel for him.

Jon approached Damian until he was close enough that Damian could’ve cut him with the sword while standing still.

“Well, too bad, because a half-alien is gonna invade your training space,” Jon said defiantly.

In response, Damian snapped his arm to point the sword right at Jon’s chest.

Both boys stood still for a few seconds in that pose—Jon standing boldly against the tip of Damian’s sword aimed right at his heart. In truth, there was no real danger in the scene. Jon’s Kryptonian invulnerability made him harder than the sword’s steel. Damian could no sooner stab him than he could a mountain. But what mattered was if Damian wanted to in the first place.

Jon stepped forward, and Damian pulled the sword back just a little, inches away from Jon’s shirt. Jon stepped forward again, and Damian pulled the sword back again. Both of them stared each other down with unflinching eyes. Jon walked forward until he was right in front of Damian, the sword having retreated to the point where Damian just dropped it to the floor.

Jon loosely took Damian’s hands into his own. He was heartened by the familiar sensation of Damian’s skin, the small rough patches where callouses had formed. It thrilled him to touch the shape of Damian’s slender fingers and to feel the heat of his palm. Damian didn’t resist, which Jon took as a good sign.

“I’m sorry, D,” Jon said again, his eyes meeting Damian’s glare. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I missed you. All that time I was in space, I wished I could tell you the things I saw and the things I learned. I wanted to share with you everything that happened. I wanted to know what you thought, and what you’d say. I missed you a lot.”

Jon felt the tension in Damian’s palms disappear. It was as if the tightly wound spring that held Damian’s indignation together finally snapped. Muscles relaxed. Damian’s shoulders sagged. Damian looked away, unable to hold eye contact—that or he was overwhelmed by the surge of honesty. Damian’s face was a storm of restrained emotions. He was frowning, his teeth were gritted and his mouth was a thin line. Jon could sense the battle that Damian was waging within himself at that moment—a battle of emotions against the utter unfamiliarity of experiencing them this intensely.

“I thought,” Damian began with an infinitely soft and vulnerable voice, “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

It was the same thing he’d growled at Jon from before, but now his voice was anxious and light as a feather. The ice had evaporated, the venom gone. The words were an unrealized terror that Damian still wasn’t sure had already abated. The hurt was scrawled across his face in stark invisible lines almost brighter than blood.

“I’m not gonna leave you,” Jon said just as softly.

He gripped Damian’s hands tighter and thought of the only way he knew to ease his friend’s misery.

“Damian, do you want to kiss me?”

Damian held Jon’s gaze once more, and then nodded.

But before Jon could turn to offer his cheek, Damian had already found his mark—he pressed his lips firmly against Jon’s own.

At first, Jon felt a thousand variations of surprise and shock. He’d never thought Damian would ever—it was a kiss, a  _real_  kiss! On his  _lips_! He would be lying if he said he’d never imagined it, but he’d never thought Damian had ever wanted to.  But then any doubt was pushed aside as he was swept up in the sheer emotion behind the thing, the unique urgency of the pressure, the heat of it, the tender texture of Damian’s lips…they all made sense. They had always been leading up to this moment. They were talking about a thousand things without saying anything at all—a silent language of kisses.

They had started with a little kiss. It was a little kiss that became a thousand little ones that led to this moment of warmth, and affection, and honesty. A thousand little kisses became two…just two. Two kisses, from two boys, given in one moment that would last a lifetime.


End file.
